Date Night
by napalminthemorning
Summary: Arthur finally gets Ariadne to go on a date. Eames is not amused.


**Date Night**

_Napalminthemorning_

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><p><em>Write a story about a date. <em>

_AN: It isn't really a date, per say. Because I don't do dates. -cough-_

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><p>It was actually amusing to watch Eames's eyes bulge to unthinkable proportions and his jaw drop such that you could fly a plane in. Seldom did the Brit lose control like that, and Arthur was enjoying the situation very much.<p>

"Jealous, Eames?"

"No, I'm just stunned that you're more than twenty years old and can still fail at doing a proper cartwheel."

Arthur frowned at him for that. So it wasn't his fault that his dad, while instructing him how to do a cartwheel, had fallen flat on his face, young Arthur had taken that to be part of the routine, and no one had ever thought to tell him otherwise.

"Well, I've got no time to listen to your nonsense. I'm going to have to get ready for tonight. Seven o'clock, baby!" Arthur gave Eames a hearty pat on the shoulder and attempted another cartwheel out of the door.

"Ouch – you sure your nose isn't broken, Artie boy?"

"Shut up," Arthur mumbled through some red liquid which he'd be damned was sugar syrup, and limped out of the office.

"Letting him go without a fight?" Ariadne looked up from her seat and gave Eames a Cheshire grin. "I'm surprised at you, Eames. Something told me you would have done far more to stop him."

"Rest assured, Ariadne," Eames gave her a little kiss on the cheek as he grabbed his coat and followed the blood trail out the door, "I'm just getting warmed up."

**18 04**

This was a good day. This was the best day. This was a wonderful, wonderful day. He felt that he could just burst out dancing to a song, and Arthur _never_danced. But Ariadne had agreed to go out for a date! This was not a normal day.

He'd already changed into his most beautiful suit, slicked back his hair as neatly as possible; now all he had to do was take a drive down to Ariadne's house. Heck, there was time for some dancin'. A quick shuffle through his iPod and You Make My Dreams was ready, and he was just snapping his fingers when –

"CANNONBALL!" a suspiciously familiar voice yelled even as a large puddle of something drenched Arthur, soaking through his clothes with all the wetness that only a liquid can do. Arthur's eyes were shut and he was trying very vigilantly not to open them to check the color of the liquid. God knew he had bad experiences with pee.

When he had finally ascertained that the liquid was water, unless it was some sort of very diluted urine, Arthur finally opened his mouth to scream : " WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR?" Unfortunately said familiar voice had disappeared into the foggy air, leaving Arthur in his best suit drenched as if the familiar single cloud of Hollywood had come to rain on him.

**18 17**

But a little mishap of someone diving into the wrong pool was not going to deter Arthur. Dating Ariadne was a once in a lifetime opportunity and there was nothing that was going to stop him from doing it. (Well, unless the London Philharmonic Orchestra was in town. But of course he'd tell everyone he was going for the Death Cab for Cutie concert. Admitting you listened to classical music with gusto was suicide – Eames would bring a violin and completely massacre Vivaldi.)

So it was just as well that there were nothing but suits in Arthur's wardrobe (although he did wear the occasional t-shirt – it wouldn't do for them to find out), because nothing less than a suit was going to be enough for the girl of his dreams. Arthur pushed the door open and –

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS FOR?"

There were no more suits; there were no more jackets. The ties had been vanquished to Tieberia, the dress pants were probably floating around in some lake, the vests had unbuttoned themselves and flapped away to somewhere tropical to spend the winter.

And what the _hell _was he left with? A kingdom for a damned horse! It was as if the Winx fairies and Strawberry Shortcake had teamed up for some dress competition, and the result was this – hundreds of frilly, lacy pink shirts, tight purple hot pants, and multi-colored high tops of every conceivable level of garishness.

No, he was _not _going to go out like this. All he needed to do was to go buy himself a new set of clothes. Trying to be as happy as he could, or at least as happy as a soaked man whose wardrobe had been redesigned by Barbie, Arthur strode out of the house towards the tailor on the corner of the street.

**18 26**

Contrary to all expectations that were framing themselves in Arthur's brain, he reached Turner's Tailors without any further mishap than simply bumping into some poor unfortunate blind sod. No chicken dung besieged him from the skies, no puddles of water lay in his path for him to slip on. Perhaps he'd be on time, after all.

Having selected a wonderful suit, Arthur put his hands into his pockets to fish out his –

"OH, COME ON!"

Stupid blind man. Stupid blind man who had bumped into him. He could see it all now; someone in that stupid fishy getup stealing his wallet because he was in a damned suit. FINE! He'd go on a date with frilly lace shirts. As long as he made it.

**18 41**

He'd made it back to the house in one piece, picked out the most unfrilly shirt he could find, said a silent prayer and dressed himself in the thing. It felt…oh, God, he swore he was going to pay this person back, whoever he was.

Twenty minutes. There was still a good twenty minutes to go; he could get there in time. He'd have to drive there, but hey – that was what a car was for, wasn't it?

And the best thing – the tires weren't popped, the key was still in the ignition. But Arthur wasn't going to hope, yet. Because Murphy's Law stated that –

"I am going to _kill _Murphy."

The tank was empty, completely goddamned empty, even though he'd just filled it up a moment ago, and Arthur was in the mood to strangle someone even as he started running in his frilly pink shirt and neon orange high tops towards Ariadne's house.

**18 57**

My God, he'd made it! Arthur heaved an ecstatic sigh, disregarding the fact that his getup was drawing many shouts of 'is the circus in town?' from passersby.

There was the light on the doorstep. Arthur bounced up the stairs two by two, hammering on the white door happily, and in all his eagerness he did not see that he'd stepped into the noose which then tightened around his ankle and hoisted him six foot above the porch.

**19 00**

Ariadne opened the door and smiled, foxily. "Right on time," she said to the dapper man in his flashy navy suit, the white shirt left unbuttoned to leave a touch of flamboyance. "I knew I shouldn't have bet with you."

"Of course not, m'dear," Eames said, offering his arm to Ariadne, who took it gracefully as he escorted her down the steps to his sports car. "When I bet that Arthur doesn't make it to a date, I win that bet."

"So where is he now?" Ariadne asked as a matter of interest as she took her seat.

Eames smiled. "Oh, I'm sure he's…hanging around somewhere."


End file.
